Burn
by ellembee
Summary: Snow outlawed volunteering nearly thirty years ago. Katniss never steps foot inside the arena. An alternate road to rebellion.


The glare of the midday sun makes it nearly impossible for Peeta to see the approaching station. He hears them first, the boisterous crowd waiting outside, cheering for him. The sound churns his stomach, and he regrets the few bites of breakfast he forced down under Effie's watchful eye.

The train slides to a smooth stop beneath a thick overhanging of branches, and suddenly, Peeta can see them. It looks like all of District 12 has turned out for his homecoming. Even the coal miners who typically have been underground for hours by this time of day have been given a reprieve. They are scattered throughout the crowd, standing with their families, their faces still dirty from the morning's work.

For a moment, Peeta stares, unable to reciprocate any of their excitement. The sight reminds him of his first glimpse of the Capitol, of the hordes of people starving for a glimpse of him. But this is different, he reminds himself. This is family, friends, neighbors. This is home.

The crowd roars as his figure fills the open door. He forces a smile and waves, catching sight of his family standing in the front, his father's grin threatening to split his face in two, his brothers cheering loudly, arms in the air. His mother wears a strange expression, one he cannot place.

He scans the crowd for dark hair and a pair of gray eyes but is unsurprised at her absence. He is almost relieved.

"Peeta." His father pulls him into a hug as soon as he disembarks. "I'm so…" He pulls back to study his son's face. _What?_ Peeta thinks. _Proud? Relieved? Ashamed?_

"I can't believe you're here," his father says instead.

"I didn't believe," his mother interjects. "I couldn't, not until…" She touches his cheek, the first sign of affection she has shown him in years. He thinks she's about to say more, but then she steps away to let his brothers hug him.

Then there is nothing more to be said, so they exchange promises to visit one another soon, and Peeta leaves them behind, Haymitch at his elbow. There is no talk of his family relocating. Peeta wonders when he'll see them again.

The ride back to town is quiet. Haymitch is silent beside him, too focused on the flask clenched in his fist to offer conversation. Peeta's family makes the return trip on foot with the rest of the town.

The car drops Haymitch and Peeta off at the entrance to Victors' Village. The sound of the engine fades away, but Peeta remains beneath the archway.

"You ready, kid?" Haymitch finally asks.

Peeta is about to respond when he catches a flash of dark hair out of the corner of his eye. He turns, just in time to face her punch head on. His nose crunches beneath her fist, and the force sends him to the ground.

"You son of a bitch," she spits, landing another punch before Haymitch can pull her away. She thrashes in his arms, her legs kicking up a cloud of dirt.

"Katniss." Peeta tastes blood and dirt as he struggles to his feet, still unsteady on his new leg.

"You killed her!" She tries to jump out of Haymitch's arms, but he holds her tightly around the waist.

"Come on. Let's get you home." Haymitch's voice is gentle, the gentlest Peeta has ever heard. He speaks to Katniss as if she is a wild animal spooked into violence.

Katniss twists out of Haymitch's grip and slaps him across the face. "You didn't do a thing for her! She was twelve and you just let her-"

"I didn't just _let _anything happen," Haymitch barks. "I did the best I could for the both of them."

"Right. That lie you and Peeta came up with really helped her."

"It wasn't-" Peeta begins.

"You used her," she accuses. "You used her in some sick, twisted lie to make them love you. They're falling at your feet now."

"I tried to protect her. Prim was-"

She slams Peeta into the archway, cracking his head against the metal. "Don't you dare say her name." She pins him there, her forearm crushing his throat. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and somewhere far away comes the thought that this is the first conversation they have ever had. He used to dream of being this close to her.

"Hey!" Haymitch yanks her off Peeta. "That boy did not kill your sister. I did not kill your sister. Remember who the enemy is here."

She stares at them, hands trembling at her side. She is finally still enough for Peeta to notice the dark circles and hollow cheekbones. Has it only been three weeks since he saw her last? How could so much change so quickly? How could there be so much loss?

"I remember." And then she is gone, walking back toward the Seam.

That night, as Peeta and Haymitch dine at the mayor's home, Victor's Village burns to the ground.

* * *

As Effie Trinket took the stage on the day of the reaping, Katniss imagined being on stage beside her. She pictured herself riding on the train, being paraded through the Capitol, and dying in the arena. She wished desperately for two unfamiliar names to quickly be called so this ceremony would end and she could return to the quiet of the woods.

She did not think of her sister. It wasn't out of selfishness or self-preservation; she simply could not fathom a situation where her little sister would be called to the stage. Katniss had promised her as much earlier that morning.

When Effie named Primrose Everdeen as the female tribute for District 12, Katniss's vision blurred, and she swayed on her feet. She knew she couldn't ever return to the time before Prim's name was read aloud for the entire country to hear, so instead she wished she could exist in this one moment forever, in between hearing and truly understanding what it meant, between hearing and seeing Prim's blonde head appear in the aisle, her small hands tucking in the back of her shirt.

"No." Panic clawed at her chest and her throat burned with the threat of tears, but she didn't know how to stop her sister from climbing onto the stage. All she could do was stumble after her, shouting her name. "Wait! Prim!"

Two peacekeepers blocked her path, but she had succeeded in delaying her sister. Prim paused at the bottom of the steps and looked back at Katniss. She already looked older than her twelve years. She looked serious and sad, resigned to a fate seventy-four years in the making. She wanted to tell Katniss that it was all right, that she could be brave, that she had learned it by watching her, but she knew she would cry if she tried to speak. And she did not want to cry.

"I'll go instead. I volunteer!" Katniss knew it was useless, that volunteering had been banned years ago because Snow could not allow even the illusion of choice. But she had to try. She had to do something. She couldn't just hand her sister over to the Capitol without a fight.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. You know as well as I do that volunteering hasn't been allowed in almost thirty years," Effie said, somewhat amused at the spectacle Katniss was causing, hoping it would earn her extra coverage on the Capitol's screens.

The burning in Katniss's throat intensified as that pink wisp of a woman smiled at her. But she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to return to her place in the crowd. She was going to burn these people to the ground because they couldn't just take her sister, they couldn't just have her to sacrifice for their personal entertainment. This wasn't fair wasn't right wasn't okay she couldn't just let them take her she was a person a little girl _her sister_.

"No! You can't have her! No!" Katniss tried to fight past the peacekeepers but their padded uniforms cushioned her fists, and nothing she did had an effect. One of them pushed her to the ground and struck her with his baton before Gale tackled him.

As the peacekeepers dragged Katniss and Gale away, Effie read the male tribute's name. Katniss didn't hear her. And she never did get to say goodbye.

* * *

The Capitol sends a construction crew to District 12 thirty-six hours after the fire, lamenting the accident caused by faulty electrical work. They point their fingers at a district unable to produce enough victors, reminding the country that Victor's Village has been around for almost 75 years and remained nearly empty for that same stretch of time. No one had thought to check the old wiring.

The citizens of the Capitol barely give it a second thought, but there are whispers that the fire was an act of rebellion, and the rumors quietly pass from District 12 to 11, 10… but there is nothing else, no mischief on the construction site as the village is rebuilt, and a month later, Victor's Village stands again. Fewer houses are erected, but they are larger, more ostentatious than their predecessors. They are deadly reminders that the Capitol will always rebuild.

Peeta returns to his childhood home in the interim, to his old bedroom shared with his two brothers. Conversation had always been somewhat difficult between Peeta and his brothers, especially as roughhousing gave way to school and work and reapings. Now though the conversation is nonexistent. They mostly just stare at him in disbelief when they think he isn't looking and tell him when a meal is ready. Other than that, they leave him alone.

And he is alone. He's not sure where Haymitch is staying during the reconstruction, and he doesn't want to see Delly or any of his old friends. So he tries to sleep and fails and tries to read and fails and he tries to paint but it's all reds and blacks covering yellow, so he spends his nights baking every recipe he can recall from memory.

Every day before the sun rises, he walks to Katniss's home and leaves her a box of pastries, a loaf of bread, a bowl of stew, anything he has made overnight. And every morning he finds the remains of the last meal strewn about her doorstep, crushed under the heel of a hunting boot.

For a month, he is alone in his old home. Then, he is alone in his new home. Alone with his nightmares, his guilt, his paintings of dead children, his baking and cooking that go to waste on her doorstep. Nothing changes but the scenery.

* * *

Prim wore a dress made of fire for the Tribute Parade.

Prim received a score of 4.

Prim was twelve years old, and she was going to die in the arena.

Katniss stared at the screen the night before the 74th Annual Hunger Games were to begin, repeating these facts over and over. She stared at Prim on stage beside Caesar Flickerman, innocent and beautiful in her bright shimmery dress. Her voice was confident, her smile bright, and when Caesar asked her if she wished Katniss had succeeded in volunteering, Prim shook her head.

"I would never wish for someone to go in my place. And certainly not my sister. She's taken care of me my whole life, and I know how she must be feeling right now."

"And how is she feeling?" Caesar prompted.

"That this is her fault. That she failed to protect me. But I hope she'll eventually understand that there wasn't a choice, that it wasn't her fault. We didn't get to say goodbye. Is it ok if I say something now?" At his dramatic nod, Prim looked into the camera and Katniss felt her grip on sanity loosen under her sister's gaze. "I love you, Katniss. You don't need my forgiveness because there is nothing to forgive. This isn't your fault. You know who did this. You know who put me here."

Caesar immediately jumped to his feet to distract the crowd from Prim's harsh words, a huge smile plastered on his face. As he thanked Prim and ushered her off stage, Katniss vomited in the middle of the kitchen floor, unable to make it outside in time.

Her mother appeared at her elbow, rubbed her back and whispered comfort. "Go lay down, and I'll get you some water and clean this up."

Katniss made it back in time to see Peeta Mellark on screen, joking around with Caesar. Prim had subtly condemned the games on national television and here was her male counterpart laughing with the enemy. He was already playing the Capitol's game.

"Well, there uh...there is this one girl that I've had a crush on forever," Peeta admitted, blushing as if on cue. "But I don't think she actually recognized me until the reaping."

"Well, I'll tell you what, Peeta. You go out there, and you win this thing, and when you get home, she'll have to go out with you. Right, folks?"

"Thanks. But I don't think winning's gonna help me at all."

"And why not?"

"Because that would mean the death of her sister. And I'd much rather she go home instead."

The implication that he would not play the games the way the Capitol wanted him to, that he was prepared to sacrifice himself in a game that valued carnage and betrayal, was lost on Katniss because she didn't believe a word he said. She stared at Peeta's bashful expression as the audience swelled with emotion at the tragic love story he had weaved and pictured walking out onto stage and shooting an arrow into his heart.

* * *

Peeta dreams of the Capitol train stopping at each district, of sobbing parents waiting, hopeful and desperate, shattering when the doors slide open to reveal an empty car.

He dreams of Prim running through the woods, her laughter cut short by a cannon blast.

He no longer tries to sleep at night. He cooks and bakes instead, sometimes falling asleep at the counter, woken by the scent of burning pastries. He regrets waking up, wishing another fire would take his home, this time with him inside.

He continues to leave food for the Everdeens every morning, but it is two months before the meals finally disappear off her front stoop. He's not sure if Katniss is disposing of them inside the house or if she's eating them, but he is encouraged by the change in routine. He's caught only a few glimpses of her around town, but he can tell she has lost even more weight, and he cannot remember the last time her game bag looked full. He's worried but is too much of a coward to face her.

One early Thursday, the day after Peeta left a particularly hearty feast (two loaves of bread, enough lamb stew for four, a half dozen cheese buns, and a small cake made with fresh strawberries), he approaches Katniss's home with another offering in hand. He thinks there is movement in the front window and his pulse quickens. He considers turning back, but he's been delivering food every day for almost three months. It's the only link he has left to her as tenuous as it is.

The sun has not yet risen, but a streak of pink slowly spreads across the horizon. It offers a hint of light as he sets the food down. The door opens and he startles, falling into the dirt.

"Peeta."

"Mrs. Everdeen." He's relieved. Disappointed. He's dizzy from the surge of hope he felt just before Katniss's mother spoke his name.

Peeta stands and bows his head, takes a step back. "Good morning," he says. "Have a nice day."

"Peeta," she repeats. "Please don't go rushing off. I wanted to think you for your generosity these past several weeks."

He hates that she is thanking him, hates that she feels any sort of gratitude toward him when he failed her in the worst possible way.

"It's nothing. Really."

"Do you make all this yourself? Every night?"

"I don't really sleep all that much. At night, at least."

Mrs. Everdeen nods, and he can see that she understands. He used to think only Haymitch could possibly understand the raw terror that had filled him so completely that it clings to him still, bleeding out of his dreams into his waking life. And maybe that's true. Maybe only someone who has been inside the arena can understand that kind of terror, but there are other ways to feel fear, other ways to be scarred by the Games. He recognizes that in her face.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are you alone there? In that big house?"

Peeta looks down at his feet. Of course she knows. Everyone would know that his family had not made the move with him. During the day, Peeta knows it is for the best. A distance had been developing between him and his family since before the reaping. Now, after the Games, after the food and the riches and the blood, bridging the gap feels impossible.

At night though he longs for someone, anyone, so he does not have to be alone with the silence. He never knew silence had a way of creeping inside your head, that it had claws that dug so deep it paralyzed him and all he could do was lie there and think and feel and remember.

"Yeah, but I like the quiet. It's...peaceful."

"You're welcome to visit here. Anytime. You could come inside and eat with us."

Peeta is stunned. "I...I don't think...No, that isn't a good idea."

"I know Katniss is too proud to admit that we need this food, but I'm not. You're saving our lives, Peeta. And what we don't eat goes to the Hawthornes. You're doing a great-"

"Don't. Please. Just..." Peeta takes a step back, panic surging through him. He's having trouble catching his breath, and he can see it again, Prim's empty blue eyes staring up into nothing. "I'm glad you're eating it. Please keep eating it."

Peeta wants to run, but there is one more thing he is desperate to say. "Please tell Katniss it wasn't a lie. I never lied about any of it. I thought it would help us both."

Mrs. Everdeen nods, not needing any clarification. "I'll tell her. And Peeta." He is already walking away but he stops to listen. "Thank you for what you did for Prim." Her voice breaks but only just. Any hint of grief is gone with her next intake of breath. "We all saw what you did. Even Katniss. We know it wasn't your fault."

And then Peeta is running, not breathing, and he falls to his hands and knees as soon as he is out of sight. Deep breath, hold it, let it out. Deep breath, hold it, let-

He sobs until the sky is pink and orange, and he is the emptiest he has felt in a long time. The panic subsides, his breathing returns to normal, and his tears dry up, but he cannot remember what it feels like to have just one moment of peace.

* * *

Peeta considered what it would be like to compete in the Hunger Games long before the first scrap of paper bearing his name ever entered the Reaping. As a child, he lay in bed at night, wondering what he would do if he was named tribute, if he could pick up a sword and cut down children barely older than he was. If he had the guts, the courage.

He soon realized that courage had nothing to do with winning the Games. Killing the other tributes was an act of fear, of self-preservation. _Not me, not yet_, every slash of the knife screamed. The tributes wanted to survive. What else could they do?

But there was another choice. He could hide. Refuse to fight. He didn't have to let the Capitol change who he was. But what would he do when he was found by another tribute? Give himself up? Commit suicide? Fight back? Was there a difference between seeking out the other tributes to murder and killing a tribute in self-defense?

For years, Peeta didn't know what he would do, not until Primrose Everdeen was called and the choice became clear. He didn't want to kill, couldn't imagine a sword in his hand slicing someone else's flesh, but he could protect her. He could keep her safe.

"Do what Haymitch said. Avoid the cornucopia. Run. I'll find you," Peeta told her the night before the Games. Prim sat on his bed, not looking at him, the blanket clenched in her small fists.

"And then what?"

"We hide. Maybe we can outlast them."

"Does that work?" she asked in a small voice.

"Sometimes."

"And if we do. Outlast them. If it comes down to the two of us. Then what?"

"Then you go home."

Was this courage? Bravery? It didn't matter. This was a choice he could live with in the limited time he had left.

* * *

Katniss doesn't hunt anymore. Most days she still gets out of bed at dawn, slings her game bag over her shoulder, and disappears into the woods, but she never brings anything home. She can't focus long enough to line up a shot. She can't focus on much anymore. One day, she is halfway home before she realizes she still carries her bow, her arrows strapped to her back. Somehow, she managed to leave the safety of the woods, climb through the fence, and walk past the Hob with a weapon in her hands. Luckily, there are no peacekeepers in sight, so she runs home and hides her bow beneath her bed.

Now when she gets out of bed at dawn, she leaves her game bag and bow at home. It doesn't matter. She knows she won't hit anything anyway. She simply needs the routine. Mornings spent wandering the woods without a purpose are better than entire days spent in bed.

Six months pass in this way. Quiet and painful. Unremarkable. She remembers feeling angry, murderously angry, angry enough to steal gasoline from the Justice Building, angry enough to light a match. But now she is only tired. She started accepting Peeta's food because her mother would have starved without it. She thinks maybe she would have starved too, but food hadn't seemed important. It still doesn't.

Katniss doesn't realize the Victory Tour is underway until she wakes one morning to find an empty doorstep. She worries something terrible has happened to Peeta. She thinks back to the day she walked to his home in Victors' Village, suddenly consumed with the need to speak with him. She saw him through the window, sleeping on a chair in the kitchen. Saw him wake with a violent jerk. Heard the panic in his voice as he shouted for her sister. Watched him break down and cry when he realized where he was.

And now she thinks of the games, of Peeta's protectiveness, his gentle voice calming Prim when fear kept her awake. She remembers them hidden, untouched for days until Clove slit Glimmer's throat in her sleep, destroying the alliance between Districts 1 and 2. She remembers how close Peeta and Prim had been to outlasting everyone when the gamemakers decided to expedite the finale.

She remembers the split screen of the projection, Prim bleeding out on one side, Peeta pinned to the ground on the other. She remembers the stillness of Prim's body, the translucent skin of Peeta's face, and the leg the doctors couldn't save.

She is dizzy with remembering today.

Before she can return inside to grab her coat and boots, her mother lays a hand on her shoulder.

"The Victory Tour," she reminds Katniss. "He'll be back in eleven days."

Katniss returns to bed and closes her eyes, trying to shut out the memories, but then there is only the future to think about. In less than two weeks she will have to stand on a platform before the entire district while Prim's face floats like a ghost behind her.

* * *

Peeta and Prim were separated during the chaos at the Cornucopia, and it took Peeta a day and a half to find her. When he heard her voice float down from a tree, his terror disappeared completely, even if it was just for a moment.

Another day passed before they found water. They drank and swam for as long as they dared before returning to the cover of the trees. They distanced themselves from the lake but memorized the convoluted path they took so they could find their way back.

Somehow, another four days passed in peace. Quiet, terrifying, peace disrupted only by cannon blasts in the middle of the day and the Capitol's anthem at night. They took turns sleeping and keeping watch, hidden among the brush and leaves at the base of trees. They returned to the water only at night, slinking forward at a snail's pace, holding their breath.

On the eighth day in the arena, as Peeta and Prim sat amongst the grass, safe but desperately hungry, Peeta began to hope. It felt like a burning in his chest, the thought that they could win, that s_he_ could win. She'd be the youngest victor in history, and she would go home to her family.

On the tenth night, the gamemakers set the world on fire, and Peeta's hope turned to ash.

* * *

Peeta clutches Effie's cards to his side, a slight tremble in his hand. He has faced the other districts' cheerless celebrations of his victory. He has faced the tears of the families left behind, stared into the eyes of the parents of the tributes he killed himself, and he never stumbled or faltered, never tripped over a single carefully prepared word. But today, in front of family and friends, he is unsteady. He tries to meet Katniss's eyes, but she stares straight through him.

He looks down at the cards even though he has committed most of the speech to memory. He cannot stand to look out at Katniss's blank expression or Prim's face for one moment more. "I…I am honored to be with you here today and to be with the family of the fallen tribute. I want to share my victory with you, my home district, as we celebrate the generosity of the Capitol and look to-toward the future."

He makes the mistake of looking up and finds Mrs. Everdeen staring at him. She nods in encouragement, as if to pick him up from the stumble he has taken, and he feels the same panic that overtook him outside of her house, the same panic that claws through his sleep every night stir within him.

He drops the cards.

"But first I want to say a few words to the Everdeen family. I want to tell them I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm the one standing here right now instead of Prim. I'm sorry I didn't save her. I should have saved her. I would have given up my life for her, Katniss, and I'm sorry every day for failing her. She never should have entered the arena. It shouldn't have to be this way."

There is silence as the words of Peeta Mellark, Capitol Darling, sink in. The crowd looks up at Katniss and her mother, waiting for a reaction. Tears in her eyes, Katniss lifts her left hand, presses three fingers to her lips, and holds them up. Mrs. Everdeen does the same.

And then, so does the entire crowd.

Two peacekeepers escort Peeta back inside the Justice Building, ending his speech prematurely. They load him back on the train for the Capitol. A small group of peacekeepers break up the crowd, ordering them back to their jobs or houses. Everyone disperses peacefully and quietly. It is the district's last moment of calm because even with the delay, production didn't cut Peeta's speech off in time, not expecting someone who has been so cooperative, so charming, to condemn the Games in front of the entire nation.

The next day, Romulus Thread and several trucks of peacekeepers descend upon District 12.

* * *

It happened fast. The fire. Waking up Prim. Running. The heat at their backs. The sudden absence of the flames. The cold dread when Cato stumbled out from behind a tree, coughing up smoke.

And then Peeta's stupid, fatal mistake. He should have told her to run. He should have told her to run far, far away, but he didn't want to let her out of his sight. He was afraid if she ran, she would disappear for good.

"Stay behind me," he ordered.

Peeta launched himself at Cato, and they hit the ground, Cato smacking his head on a good-sized rock. Momentarily stunned, Cato was unable to block a single punch.

"Peeta!" Peeta looked up, saw Prim facing off against Clove. Cato slammed his first into Peeta's temple, and he hit the ground, blood in his mouth, ears ringing.

Before Peeta's vision could clear, before he could sit up or think or breathe, Cato plunged his sword into Peeta's thigh. It slid through skin and bone and stuck into the ground on the other side.

"Stay," Cato sneered as if commanding a dog.

This was an agony Peeta had never experienced before. The world was losing its sound and color and depth, and for a moment he couldn't remember Prim or Katniss or Clove because the only thing he knew was that his leg was splitting open and bleeding out and he was dead.

He forced himself back into the moment, into the arena. He remembered Prim and Katniss and his silent promise. He remembered bravery. He remembered that he had never intended to leave this arena but god fucking Christ he had never imagined it could hurt this much.

He swallowed. His vision focused. He saw a spear sail through the air, saw Cato dodge it, and realized Marvel was nearby. It was the distraction he needed. Before Cato could attack Marvel, Peeta picked up the rock that had already damaged Cato's head and threw it as hard as he could.

Cato was dead before he hit the ground. Marvel's eyes met Peeta's, but then Clove was screaming, running after Marvel, and they were both gone.

Peeta's mouth filled with blood, his teeth shredding his tongue, as he pulled the sword out of the ground. He wanted it out of his leg, but he knew he would bleed to death without it there, so he told himself that it didn't hurt. That he didn't even have a leg. That nothing mattered other than getting to Prim.

He crawled over to her, using Marvel's spear for leverage, only to find a knife sticking out of her chest. He hadn't heard her scream in pain, hadn't heard the cannon blast, hadn't heard anything at all.

He lay down beside her, ready to die, because this wasn't courage; this wasn't anything other than a show for people who had never known terror or desperation. He didn't want to fight anymore, didn't want to prolong their entertainment, and he probably would have died right there, except seconds later he heard a cannon blast and then heavy breathing as Clove broke through the trees.

If it had been anyone else, Peeta would have shut his eyes and waited for the final blow. He didn't deserve to leave the arena, not after failing Prim so terribly. But the sight of the small, dark-haired girl clutching the sister of the knife sticking out of Prim's chest filled him with an unfamiliar fury, so he closed his eyes, tightened his grip on the spear, and decided to take the stage one last time.

* * *

Katniss wakes to screaming. She tugs on pants and boots and runs outside to find her world in flames and chaos. Peacekeepers flood the streets, pushing and kicking anyone who gets in their way. She watches an old woman hit the ground, cowering under the peacekeeper's baton, and suddenly remembers the anger that carried her into Victor's Village in the middle of the night six months earlier.

She rushes back inside for her bow.

By the time she makes it into the square, the Hob is nearly destroyed and someone is already being made into an example. When Katniss recognizes Gale's cries, she hurries inside the nearest building, climbs to the roof, and stares down at the square, at the blood already splattered on the ground, and the peacekeeper swinging the whip.

She pulls out an arrow, aims for the head, and lets it fly.

In Katniss's early days of hunting, she used to feel guilty for killing the animals she brought home to eat or sell, but she quickly learned that there was no choice in the matter. Hunting was necessary for her survival. As the arrow hits its mark, and the peacekeeper drops his whip, Katniss feels none of the old guilt. This is no different from taking down a deer or turkey. She has to do what is necessary to survive. The Capitol has forced her hand.

Katniss drops to her stomach before the peacekeeper hits the ground. She crawls back inside, leaving her beloved bow behind, knowing she will never make it home with it clutched in her hand.

That night, the entire town is under curfew, and peacekeepers march from house to house to interrogate every citizen. They threaten, they throw punches, they drag people out into the streets, but they get no answers.

District 12, beaten and bruised, think of the dead peacekeeper in the middle of the square. They think of Peeta's words and the fire in Victor's Village, and they begin to hope.

* * *

As peacekeepers rip District 12 apart searching for Thread's killer, Peeta sits alone in a hotel suite, his interview with Caesar Flickerman postponed. He spends the afternoon staring at the wall, ears straining for the sound of heavy boots in the hallway. Finally, around six, Portia appears at his door to dress him for the party at President Snow's mansion.

The festivities feel subdued, at least by Capitol standards. There is food and music and dancing, but he feels like a party crasher rather than the honored guest. People greet him and shake his hand, but their smiles are tight, their demeanor uninviting. He assumes all the trouble is due to his speech the day before, and it is almost two AM before Cinna finds him in the garden and fills him in on District 12.

Peeta returns to his room, but he can do nothing but worry and pace. The next morning, just as Peeta drifts off to sleep on the sofa, three peacekeepers barge into his hotel room. Moments later, he is in a car on the way back to Snow's mansion.

"Ah, Mr. Mellark. Please sit," Snow greets him once he has entered his office.

"President Snow." Peeta sits in the hard back chair directly in front of Snow's desk.

"I trust you enjoyed yourself last night?"

"Yes, thank you."

"It was a lovely party." Snow smiles, but it is not an expression of happiness or reassurance. It is a mutation of a smile, twisted and ugly, showing all his teeth. "Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to enjoy the celebration, as I was preoccupied with the goings on in District 12."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Perhaps this would be easier if we agreed not to lie to each other, hm? Your actions in the arena and your recent speech have certainly inspired a reaction."

"I didn't-"

"Do you think you can do as you please now that you're a victor? Do you not understand your actions have consequences? Especially for the people you care about."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, it's not just you. Miss Everdeen certainly hasn't helped matters."

When Cinna told him a peacekeeper had been killed, Peeta desperately hoped Kantiss had nothing to do with it. Why had he gone off script two days ago? Why had he spoken directly to her as if an apology six months after the fact could make a difference? It was his fault peacekeepers had descended upon the district, his fault Katniss had to pick up her bow.

"Katniss hasn't done anything," Peeta insists. "It was my speech and my actions. She hasn't-"

"I have a dead peacekeeper on my hands and an entire district of witnesses. News like that travels fast. Faster than the news about Victors' Village in ashes. Don't," Snow snaps when Peeta opens his mouth to argue, "tell me Miss Everdeen had nothing to do with that either. Two serious crimes were committed and no one was punished. Do you know how that makes the Capitol look?"

"It was an electrical fire," Peeta reminds him desperately. "Everyone believed you."

"It makes the Capitol look weak."

"You'd make her a martyr. It would just make things worse." He closes his eyes and expects to see Prim's pale, still body; it is an image he carries with him everywhere. Instead, he sees Katniss, bleeding and broken. He opens his eyes, sick with the sight, but her bruised face lingers.

"You raise a good point. No one would give her up as Thread's killer last night. District 12 is rallying behind her. She does make a good symbol, doesn't she? The pretty, heartbroken sister of a fallen tribute. She's certainly a fighter." Snow waves his hand at a servant behind Peeta who opens the door to the office. Several of Snow's bodyguards pour into the room. It is not until they reach Snow's desk that Peeta realizes an expressionless Katniss stands in the middle of the group, a bodyguard holding on to each of her arms.

"Perhaps we need to take the fight out of her?" Snow nods at the closest bodyguard who grabs Katniss by the throat and yanks her forward. The blonde bodyguard next to him pulls out a knife.

Peeta jumps to his feet. "What are you doing? You can't do this!"

"Consider this an act of mercy, Mr. Mellark. I'll let you keep her when we're done. Flynn, cut out her tongue."

Flynn squeezes Katniss's jaw in an attempt to open her mouth, but she remains tightlipped. Flynn presses the knife against her lips and draws blood. When she still refuses to cooperate, he drags the knife along her cheek.

"Stop! Don't!" Peeta remembers the pain of his injured leg in the arena, and he feels it now like an echo in his chest threatening to crack open his rib cage. The pain is worse than he remembers. This time it will kill him. Peeta launches himself at Flynn, but another bodyguard knocks him into Snow's desk, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Snow waves his hand at the group, and Flynn stops. Katniss bleeds heavily from her cheek and lips, but her expression remains the same: uncaring and distant. She spits blood on the carpet.

Snow steps out from behind his office. He loomed over Peeta who is pinned to the ground beneath a bodyguard's boot. "You will have your interview with Caesar tonight. You will apologize for your remarks. You will explain that you grew emotional when confronted with the memory of hurting the girl you love. And you will recite every word that is written for you. I think you understand the consequences of going off script." Snow shifts his gaze to Katniss. "And you. You will tell the entire nation that your sister's death was an honor. That you are proud she entered the arena. That she served her purpose. Do you understand?"

When Katniss remains silent, Snow grabs her chin, his thumb digging into her injury. "You think I won't kill you, but there are so many things worse than death and so many of your loved ones to experience them. Now. Do you understand?"

A year ago, Katniss would have done anything this man said to spare her family and friends from his wrath, but he has already taken away the person she cares about most. She thinks of her mother and Gale, of all the men, women, and children in District 12, and she knows she cannot protect them. No matter what she does for this man, it will never be enough. They're all dead anyway.

"Yes," Katniss says, tasting her own blood.

"We're recording the interview to be played later. There's no reason to go off script. Now," Snow claps his hands together, and drops of Katniss's blood splatter onto the carpet, "let's get Miss Everdeen cleaned up."

* * *

Three hours later, Katniss is ushered into Peeta's suite and told to wait there. She finds him in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the mattress.

"They fixed your cheek," Peeta observes quietly. His hand aches to reach out and trace the thin white line that lingers. He knows in another few minutes even that will disappear, and there will be no physical evidence of the Capitol's cruelty.

"They fixed your nose." She smiles at this, and it is a beautiful, rare sight.

He taps his nose and returns her smile, even though she was the cause of its crookedness. "Good as new."

She drifts past him, her red dress swishing around her feet, and sits beside him. She is suddenly so tired that she cannot stand for one second more.

"Katniss, I need to talk to you. Before whatever happens, happens." He doesn't know what's waiting for them once they leave this room. All they have right now is a temporary reprieve, a transient safe haven inside these walls. Once they leave, there are no guarantees. "I want to tell you how sorry I am about-"

"Don't. I'm only going to say this once, and then we're never going to speak about it again." She stares at the floor, her voice quiet and steady. "I know Prim's death wasn't your fault. I know you did everything you could to save her. I know what you sacrificed." She touches his artificial leg and finally meets his eyes. "I don't want them to kill you, Peeta."

He hears the 'but' in her voice, and he knows that she will not follow Snow's rules. He is not surprised or afraid. At least not for himself. The image of the knife sliding across her cheek will stay with him forever. "What are you going to do?"

"What I have to. It may not make a difference, but it matters what we do. And what we don't." She holds his gaze, and he thinks she's about to say more, but instead she leans forward and kisses him.

Her lips are soft and slightly sticky from whatever gloss the stylists applied. She smells like roses, like the Capitol, and when he touches her face, his fingers come away dusted with glitter. He knows he looks and feels different too, from his hair to his suit to his new leg. He wishes that they could experience this kiss as themselves without the Capitol's enhancements. But their differences are more than skin deep. He could never kiss her as the boy he used to be.

Katniss pulls away and leans her forehead against his. "Thank you for keeping her safe for as long as you did."

Her breath and words and skin make him forget the loss of his former self. He senses possibility instead, a chance for something new if only they could remain in this room forever. "I wish there was more time," he whispers. "I wish I could keep you safe."

She kisses him again, but she's not sure why. Maybe it is because his kiss is a fire in the hearth in the dead of winter, a warmth spreading through her that reminds her of the time before her father's death, before the reapings, before she knew true tragedy and desperation. As his hand disappears into her hair, she wonders if she could reciprocate the feelings he carried for her under different circumstances. If they had peace and freedom and opportunity, he could be her new home.

The door to the suite swings open, and they pull away from each other. Two peacekeepers enter Peeta's bedroom. "It's time," the first one barks. "Let's go."

* * *

Katniss and Peeta study their responses backstage as crew members hustle back and forth in front of them. Peeta commits his words to memory, although there will be teleprompters to guide them just in case they stray off script. He doesn't want to condemn his family to die or Katniss to life as an avox, but he doesn't want to retract his opinion of the Games. He wants to make the right decision, even though Snow has done everything possible to make it seem like there is no choice at all.

But he wasn't supposed to have a choice in the arena either, and he had managed to make one there too.

"Mr. Mellark. Miss Everdeen." A red-cheeked older man dressed in a navy suit holds his hands out to shake. Peeta accepts it on instinct, but Katniss only stares. "I'm Plutarch Heavensbee. I'm in charge of tonight's production."

Neither Katniss nor Peeta react to this, but Plutarch continues as if he does not notice their lack of interest. "I just want to briefly go over what's going to happen tonight. It's less an interview, more of an opportunity for each of you to give statements. Caesar is here to guide you along. You're going to be seen by a lot of people tonight. I hope you're prepared."

"It doesn't matter if we are," Katniss says. "You can just edit it later and paste huge smiles on our faces."

"This is airing live," Plutarch corrects. "You only get one shot."

Peeta and Katniss share a look. "Snow said it would air later. Peeta has a checkered past with live speaking engagements."

"I assure you, this is airing live. That's why it's so important you're prepared." Plutarch reaches out and gently touches Katniss's elbow. "Everyone will be watching. Do you understand?"

Katniss recoils from Plutarch's touch as if he has physically harmed her. She feels like he has, like his words have pierced her lungs and stolen all of her oxygen. "Why?" Katniss finally asks.

Peeta is not sure what she means. That small word demands so much, and he doubts anyone could even begin to answer. Not even Snow.

"Because you provided the spark. Now it's time to light the match."

A crewmember calls Plutarch over, so he wishes them luck, shakes Peeta's hand one last time, and disappears into another room. Katniss watches him go, a terrifying thrill running through her.

* * *

Caesar Flickerman takes the stage, laughing and smiling and waving. He's louder and much more garish in person. Katniss barely hears his opening remarks or Peeta's responses as she tries to keep still on the loveseat production set out for her and Peeta. She has no idea who this Plutarch Heavensbee is, or if she can trust a thing that comes out of his mouth. When it is her turn to speak, when she stares into the camera, she is almost positive she will be speaking to no one but the members of the Capitol in the audience.

But what does it matter? If this is her last stand, and she is sure that it is, why not speak as if someone who matters is listening?

"Now Katniss, this is a rare experience, even for me, to have a relative of a fallen tribute on stage. How did you feel when you saw your sister die?"

So subtle and delicate when discussing the Games. She wonders how long he would last in the arena with his blue hair and purple suit and gleaming white teeth. How long would it take for his outrageous laughter to forever be silenced?

"Broken," she replies, which technically is a word in her script, although she's not sure she said it in the right place. There's more she's supposed to say, but she ignores the teleprompter. She feels sick at her train of thought, at the type of person she has become. When she did begin fantasizing about other peoples' deaths? When did she start acting them out? She remembers the peacekeeper hitting the ground and bile burns her throat. She doesn't regret it, not when it likely saved Gale's life, but the line between her and the Capitol is starting to blur, and she knows she has lost an important piece of herself. Did Prim take it with her? Did the Capitol steal it? Or did she make a conscious choice and shed it herself?

"That's very…succinct," Caesar says.

"I'm sorry," Katniss replies. "I don't like thinking about it. I know dying in the arena is supposed to be an honor. I know Prim showed bravery and courage, all characteristics that the Capitol values. But I also know her death was a meaningless tragedy that never should have happened. I know that the Games are nothing but a tactic that you people use to control us. And I know Snow will kill me after this, but at least I'll die fighting." She looks directly into the camera and wonders if anyone is looking back. "I've made my decision. It's time for the districts to make theirs."

The lights suddenly shut off, and she knows that Plutarch was telling the truth. The fact that the lights didn't cut out as soon as she deviated from the script is enough. She feels Peeta grab her hand in the dark and hears Caesar telling the crowd to stay calm, but the audience is gasping and yelling, suddenly afraid of an attack now that Katniss's words have set their safe little world on fire, but the only threat is the peacekeepers rushing the stage.

By the time the lights come back on, every screen in Panem is filled with Katniss's face, every ear is filled with her words, but Peeta and Katniss are gone.

* * *

They run. Hand in hand they run through enemy territory, unsure how they'll get home or if they'll even make it to the Capitol's border. But their choices are limited. They can give up, turn themselves into Snow, face torture and death or worse.

They can disappear into the woods, leave the boundaries of Panem behind, try to find the freedom and peace she longed for back in the hotel room.

Or they can keep moving, keep fighting until they reach District 12 where they will find friends and family already rebelling. They can risk more loss, more bloodshed for the hope that they can save the next generation from poverty and starvation. Save them from the Games.

The choice is easy. They run.


End file.
